


In you, our intersection

by whalesandwitchcraft



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, PWP, Threesome - M/M/M, but if you're just here for the porn, more or less, more text message goodness, there's no need to read the modern au fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 02:44:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9102970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalesandwitchcraft/pseuds/whalesandwitchcraft
Summary: Thomas has a crush on his boss and his boss's boyfriend and they take notice. Then they take action.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote 75% of this on my phone while bored out of my skull on christmas day. Merr chrismas. This is not a fic I ever intended to write but I suppose this is what the holidays drive me to, so enjoy the smut.

It begins with the deliberate rhythm of a traditional Serkonan dancing song.

(It begins well before that fateful thump of skin drums and flirtatious guitar, but he doesn’t want to admit that. It would make that moment seem somehow less important than it is.)

(And, oh, how we like to make narratives of our lives.)

He has hidden himself high up on a bookshelf pushed to the corner of the training room. The room cleared hours ago, leaving Corvo and Daud alone (almost alone) to goad each other on, spar, and laugh. A bottle of wine is conjured from a locker, Daud’s phone blares generic radio, boxing gloves tossed to the side. The sparring shifts from a test of skill to instructions murmured in low voices, one or the other pinned helpless, in focused acceptance, trading techniques with their bodies intertwined. Thomas can’t make himself leave. His breath catches in his throat as they slowly, sinuously, work combat moves against one another in a feverish press that feels nothing like combat.

They break for more wine and the music shifts to the Serkonan dancing song and that is when it dawns on Thomas that his _wandering gaze_ has ignited something molten deep in his belly and he cannot look away.

Did you learn any? Corvo asks.

Daud shakes his head. I was ten when I left.

Right.

The wine has stained Corvo’s lips dark and he looks decadent as the long lines of his body begin to move to the beat of their own accord.

I learned a bit, and then his hips do something obscene, rolling like waves to the pulsing beat of the song, fluid and quick, somehow wicked.

Daud seems to suck in a breath the same moment Thomas does. He almost laughs, hidden far above, but he does not want to be found.

Corvo continues, his hips cutting curves out of the air to the constant, swaying beat. His arms are out in a gesture both aggressively challenging and celebratory. Sweat on his chest gleams, catching the light.

He sweeps the wine bottle out of Daud’s hand and takes a messy swig, hips promising impossible pleasures. And then he’s leaning in towards Daud, laughing, coaxing him up while he brings his hips through voluptuous forward rolls that at one moment billow his loose gym pants out in front of him and then flutter back to cling to the bulge at his crotch.

Thomas watches Daud laugh, steal the wine back, and permit himself to be led through through arrhythmic and stilted beginner’s hip rolls. Corvo’s hands begin at his hips to instruct but in very little time at all he is pawing at the mob boss instead.

And then the music pounds on while Daud goes to his knees, hands tugging at the waistband of Corvo’s sweatpants, and Thomas makes himself transverse away before he loses his last ounce of self control.

 

But that is where it begins.

 

Scraggly bushes, litter at the side of the highway, and his gloves making soft folding sounds against the steering wheel.

Rinaldo sleeps in the passenger seat, lips slack, suit perpetually rumpled no matter how many dry cleaners any of them recommend.

The sky above is huge, bland and unassuming.

He feels completely alone.

He feels comfortable. Why should he want anything different? He is comfortable with his thoughts, their well-worn circles in his head, and after all, we are nothing if not alone from the day we are born until the day we die. He thinks of Daud, catching his breath at the same moment Thomas did. Daud and Corvo speaking in abbreviated words, their bodies close, knowing, anticipating the other. To know another person like that.

It was a lie. They would die alone, who wouldn’t, so what was the point?

He feels comfortable where he is. He doesn’t have to _understand_ anyone, let alone the two of them.

 

When they arrive he waits at the wheel, chewing a piercing, his teeth making click click sounds to augment the soft leather sounds of his new gloves.

The house is clapboard, maybe built in the 50s, painted too many times. The edges of the wood have gone lumpy and bulbous.

He doesn’t hear the shot but why should he. Rinaldo’s not an idiot, his silencer will have been on and soon enough he shunts his wide body back into the car and the whole thing bounces a bit. It’s a sedan, low to the ground, and Thomas will abandon it at the edge of town in a lot of old cars waiting to be used for parts.

Thomas feels like he would like to be used, to be _useful_ is to be commended but that’s not precisely what he wants.

He is not sure what it is that he wants, he doesn’t want to be used for parts like a car, and Rinaldo smells of gunpowder. He will have to remind him to use the company launderers, and not just toss his suit in a pile as Thomas suspects he normally does.

A Serkonan song comes on the radio (it’s modern) and suddenly all he can think of is Corvo, shirtless, his hips, his wine-stained mouth, and he changes the radio.

Drop me off on Endoria? My girl lives close. Rinaldo tilts his head, lights a cigarette. Thomas approves, for hiding the gunpowder smell more than anything else, nods.

A crust of grey snow clings to the ground but the weather is already warm and Thomas rides to the used car lot with the windows down. He relaxes into the horizon and the highway and the steady beat of wind whipping his hair across his brow. He thinks of as little as he possibly can. He dissolves into the line where sky meets ground.

 

I think Thomas is sweet on you. Daud’s voice is soft. Corvo is dressing, a suit, Governor Hiram Burrows demands no less of his personal bodyguard and Corvo is on one level grateful for the costume. On another level, Burrows irritates Corvo in every way and he’s not convinced the man isn’t actually a hagfish in disguise.

Are you comparing it to the way he wants you so bad I could pick up on it the first time I met him? Corvo volleys back, finishing his tie and hunting down his jacket.

No. Not really. But that’s more obvious than it used to be.

Corvo hums, distracted by a scuff on one of his dress shoes.

Maybe he’s jealous of me.

Maybe.

Corvo turns it over in his mind during an extremely tedious day of meetings with Dunwall politicians so banal that he’s sent half the protection detail home. The young whaler has flitted his eyes away from him often enough. It could be jealousy, Corvo sweeping in and interrupting his hero-worship. But he didn’t really get that impression.

He crunches the sole of his scuffed dress shoe into a packed lump of leftover snow on his way back to the new base (a former slaughterhouse) in the last of the dying daylight, pleased by the grouchy sound it makes as it breaks under his heel.

 

Daud is accustomed to looking at his whalers with a specific distance. He checks their mood, their health, when he sees them he is in the habit of trying to remember what particular task they’ve been assigned or what new skill they’re learning. But when Thomas walks out of the locker room in a puff of steam, hair curled wet against the nape of his neck, Daud finds himself instead wondering what Thomas would look like on his back, what his slight body looks like without clothing, if there are more piercings, if he is noisy or quiet, selfish, masochistic, adventurous, or-

Daud clears his throat, inclines his head as he walks by.

Thomas.

Sir.

 

The air in the slaughterhouse basement is so thick with cigar smoke it’s hazy, hard to see through the orange light, deep brown shadows disguising the ugly concrete floors and the cobwebbed ceilings, wooden fan slats swirling the smoke into lazy eddies high up near the ceiling.

Corvo smells cheap whiskey buoyed along by the smoke, and arguments drowning out the sharp snap of shuffling cards and gold changing hands.

He doesn’t stand out at poker night, not really, it reminds him of the army and he relaxes with a cheap beer in hand and waits for the next round against Billie, but Thomas does stand out. He hovers on the edge, his whiskey tumbler precisely half empty, and his eyes are clearly reading physical tells, not interacting with his fellow whalers. He’s so blatantly paying attention to the temperature of the room that Corvo’s half tempted to just ask his question, close to the flushed skin of his neck, if he’s jealous or if this is something else.

But he doesn’t.

Instead he saunters by, on his way to Billie’s table, and watches Thomas watch him in the mirror hung along one wall. Thomas’s eyes long for his shoulders, his back, his ass, and as Corvo settles in to play he’s almost certain that it’s not envy that makes Thomas stare.

Almost.

An hour passes, Corvo continues to lose money in modest amounts, and on his way to pick up another beer he smiles broadly and squeezes Thomas’s shoulder.

Thomas shivers against Corvo’s fingers, and Corvo _knows_.

 

A week later Thomas goes to a secret club and he picks up one of those men, the kind that lean against the back with mean eyes and scruffy sneers, salt-and-pepper hair and concrete slab faces, and he blows the man while his knees pick up dirt off the alley floor. He finds himself wondering if Corvo gives Daud head like this, messy and fast, and he swallows down this stranger’s come.

He goes back to the base and brushes his teeth for exactly two minutes and strips to his boxers and falls asleep in his single bed.

 

Do you want--?

He’s easy on the eyes.

I’m not _comfortable_ with just-

-Surprising no one.

Well? Corvo frowns, he won’t apologize for wanting what he wants and he suspects that Daud-

Daud huffs. Fine. I suppose.

You love it.

Don’t push me.

Poor delicate baby expressing complex emotions. I’m proud of you.

Oh, fuck off, Corvo.

Mm.

Hot breath puffed against sweaty skin. Corvo hums, legs pushed apart.

But you -ah- you need to tell him- he manages, Daud working him with rough fingertips.

Me?

It’ll make sense to him, that way.

And Daud nods against Corvo’s thigh and Corvo smiles, the gruff way Daud accepts his assessment making him affectionate, the way his tongue slides making him needy.

No texts, he moans. In person.

Daud pops off, indignant. I wouldn’t. You think the worst of me, he grumbles, thumb running up and down his length, and Corvo makes a helpless little sound at the motion.

 

These days he has a laptop and his mind can flick through it without hardly touching the keyboard. There was a time when things were different, Daud recalls, when the Outsider’s gifts had required bone, blood, or whale oil if he could get it. But electricity and signal changed everything, and Daud has updated skills so many times now that it feels almost second-nature. The churlish youth he speaks with over videochat or text will sometimes warn him, but more often than not he waits to see what Daud will do with poorly-disguised anticipation.

Daud runs through reports and missives and absorbs the things his whalers communicate to him without having to open a single email.

He feels vaguely disdainful of anyone who hasn’t had to try and get things done in a world without this technology.

Thomas walks into the room with a sheath of paper.

For the Rudshore cleanup, he says.

Daud grunts and holds out a hand for the papers.

Walk me through it.

His mind scrambles to think of a way to just ask him. Daud is used to giving orders. He is not used to asking.

His eyebrows are drawn close in concentration, a silver ring looped through the skin of one, his bandana neatly folded over the bridge of his nose, and he leans over to flip through the papers to a specific one and Daud moves on instinct untempered by the caution his later years have attempted to teach him.

He tugs the mask down and uses its hold around his neck to pull Thomas in, captures his lips, marveling at how he almost can’t feel the lip piercing, marvels still more at the way Thomas instantly yields, his mouth opening for him, soft, willing.

Daud realizes that he has gone much too far, and he withdraws.

Thomas blinks at him, finger still hovering over the chart he was going to use to start his explanation.

Daud gets up and transverses away, he doesn’t care, and after several angry breaths he pulls out his phone and starts an encrypted group text.

 

Daud: Thomas do you want to fuck us

Corvo: BY THE FUCKING VOID DAUD

Corvo: I TOLD YOU NO TEXTS

Daud: Tactical move Corvo, please respect

Corvo: BULLSHIT

 

Three minutes go by. Daud feels ridiculous.

 

Thomas: Is this a joke?

Corvo: Thomas I am so sorry Daud is a fucking child

Corvo: I am coming over there

 

Thomas tugs on the fingers of his gloves and aligns each seam as neatly as he can. Daud’s office is warm, but he does not take off his coat. He expects to leave soon.

Corvo storms in, halts in the doorway when he notices that Daud isn’t there, turns skittish.

Yes, says Thomas, quietly, dry-mouthed.

Thomas feels a bit silly that he expected Corvo to taste like wine when he leans down and thumbs his chin up and up and up to kiss him.

 

The biggest problem ends up being scheduling.

 

Corvo has to accompany Burrows to White Cliff for the weekend, and then Thomas has graveyards, and then the next weekend there is an important negotiation Daud needs to see to, and Daud informs the both of them over text that this (whatever this is, Thomas still isn’t sure) cannot supercede work.

In the meantime, though, he grows accustomed to anomalies in his routines. He finds a new brand of spicy chip tucked into his locker. His coffee order at the corner shop mysteriously needs no payment, the barista winking conspiratorially at him as she hands him his pour-over. His phone seems to be constantly vibrating with the near-endless bickering that serves as communication for Corvo and Daud.

He is still comfortably alone, but something is encroaching on his careful borders. A new big lie that he doesn’t want to examine.

Thomas admits to himself that he feels courted and that he likes the way it feels.

There. That’s examination enough.

 

Dead ivy chatters on the breeze at the Golden Cat, waiting for spring sun to unfurl fresh leaves and replace the yellowed crumbly things curving around the ostentatious architecture. Thomas watches from a high perch (his lot in life, maybe) and counts the hours until his patrol is over.

There are fewer overseers ducking in these days, but nobility aplenty. When he talked to the girls earlier, they complimented his new tie and laughed at him when he blushed to the tips of his ears and wouldn’t tell them who gave him the present.

Without warning someone pushes at him, shoving him under the dark join of cornice and facade, and then Corvo is kissing him with breathless intensity. The solid planes of his body trap Thomas there and he feels vulnerable, small, trembling, gloved hands scrabbling to find a grip. And then he is gone and Thomas is left gasping for breath, his mouth open and his lips flushed.

 

Corvo: Thomas do u want to talk us through what u do and don’t like?

Daud: Moodkiller. You sound parental. Ew, Thomas, don’t be into that.

Corvo: like ur nonstop judgment train isnt a moodkiller

Corvo: also ur name is 1 letter away from dad

Corvo: deal w it

Thomas: We can figure it out as we go. I promise to use my words.

Corvo: watch out, Suit, hes got u beat on a couple of counts already

Daud: Yeah, make it a competition, that sounds fun for everyone.

Corvo: surprised u didn’t go for a beat joke

Daud: I’m deleting you from my phone

 

It’s midnight and the stars are hidden behind a blanket of fog. The city’s quiet makes him feel like an interloper, trespassing in the only place he has ever lived. He paces from one end of the rooftop to the other, scanning Kaldwin’s bridge. When Daud appears on the rooftop across the street he’s barely even surprised. He watches a quick bloom of red as Daud lights a cigarette.

They survey each other across the gap. Daud watches the smoke curl off into the sky, waiting, imagines a leash stretching across from his hand to Thomas, who looks very young and small from so far away. Daud likes to know that he can snap his fingers and Thomas will come running, but he also wants him to cross on his own.

He wants the reassurance.

He crawls into his lap after what Daud feels is entirely too long, mouth gentle, a light weight straddling him, and they kiss until Daud feels the heat from his unattended cigarette burned down almost to his gloves.

 

The sky opens and it rains in sheets. Flood warnings blare over loudspeakers and Dunwall flounders in the rising water. The thirsty ground takes as much as it can and still the rain continues. Thomas shivers under an overhang, his nose is cold and his socks are wet.

He is out of sorts.

They both attack at once, a dizzying confusion of mouths on his neck, at his jaw, on his mouth. Hands firm on his shoulder, one of them shoving into his waistband to pinch the flesh of his hip. Teeth bounce the rubber gauge in his ear. He squeaks in surprise.

He is suddenly grateful for the press of them, warm and damp, anchoring him through a squeeze of his ass, a tongue forced down his throat, and then both of them are gone.

He stumbles.

It’s not until an hour later that he finds the crumpled piece of paper shoved down his pants. It says:

      20:00

      Daud’s

Thomas destroys the paper immediately, his stomach in turmoil. The rain drums down onto the city and Thomas finds it hard to breathe.

 

He showers until the hot water is gone, scrubbing, twisting to push soapy fingers into himself until he’s raw and uncomfortable but clean, the sharp beat of water on his skin a docile twin to the rain beleaguering Dunwall’s streets.

He’s giddy. It’s a little overwhelming. He isn’t used to such strong feelings and he doesn’t know quite what to do about it.

The soap he uses is anonymous, a white block with no scent. He combs through the long portion of his hair, towels himself with the same fervor he used washing until he is pink and dry.

He makes sure to put rubber in his ears again, he had entertained some vain notion of wearing the onyx gauges he likes so much, but after the events of that afternoon he thinks it unwise.

At some moment he realizes that he is fidgeting, not getting ready, and it is time anyway.

 

It doesn’t occur to Thomas to be worried any more, not with Daud’s tongue in his mouth, Corvo’s hands meticulous on the buttons of his shirt, the taste of the whiskey they’d offered him at the door sweet on his lips. Crowded before and behind by the two of them, their height, the solid comfort of interested bodies, he melts.

A lance of heat pierces Corvo, watching Daud tip his face to an angle better suited for licking into his mouth, soft and full against stern and thin, the hungry noise he makes as he forces Thomas up onto tiptoes for the kiss. It leaves the long, white column of his neck on display and Corvo leans in to bite. Thomas is slender, small under his hands, accommodating. His body pushes against Daud, mindlessly grinding up against his thigh, and Corvo finishes stripping him of his shirts, hands contouring against each lean muscle he unwraps from its covering like a present.

He makes a noise of pleased surprise when his hands bump against little silver bars through each of Thomas’s nipples.

Thomas pulls away from Daud’s mouth, gasps -please- and Corvo rolls the little nubs over and over until Thomas can barely stand and Daud pulls his legs up to hook around his waist and carries him, smirking and walking backwards, to the bed.

Corvo spreads his legs wide to lick at his cock while Daud shoves slippery fingers into him.

I don’t think I can- he’s overwhelmed, worried again.

Sh, Corvo says against velvet skin, just for a minute.

Oh, Thomas manages, oh, twisting around but his legs stay wide and Corvo kisses the sharp bones of his hips, flicks a clever tongue against the metal rod in his navel, sucks a nipple until it’s dripping and Thomas could scream.

Come here, Thomas holds his arms up, suddenly petulant, and Corvo comes over to kiss his mouth with fingers splayed around his ribcage.

Daud takes Corvo’s shirt off so fast it tears, and Corvo whacks him and drags him down onto the bed, teeth and tongues and snarling kisses with Thomas in the middle. And then they both break, Corvo to renew his fascination with Thomas’s nipples, Duad back at his hole, teasing, rubbing little circles in.

You going to rock-paper-scissors for it? Thomas mumbles, a flush spreading over his face and his chest when he realizes that Daud and Corvo are making cryptic little expressions at each other, Daud’s hand possessive on his inner thigh, Corvo pouting before he gets distracted, again, by the nipple piercings.

Thomas’s arms come up to pull Corvo into another kiss, and Daud settles back on the bed to watch. Their forms together are like something out of a fever dream. Corvo, golden-skinned, huge, solid muscles and black hair flecked with grey, his long lines crisscrossed with scars and fading inkwork. Thomas, pale and spare and neatly put together, young and unmarked but for interesting flashes of silver metal at pink points along his body. Corvo’s cock, obscenely big against the curve of Thomas’s thigh, makes Daud forget how to breathe.  
No rock-paper-scissors. I want you to fuck him, he gestures and falls back onto the bed. I want to watch.

Corvo looks at him, they had talked about this, it was the three of them that worked, just two and it wasn’t- but Daud’s eyes are heavy-lidded and needy and Thomas shudders against him and he hasn’t really thought through how else the three of them would make this work, so-

He weighs more than Corvo thought he would. Corvo sets him straddling his hips, so his dick nestles in the smooth cleft of his ass in a way that feels like it violates every stricture at one go. Daud passes Thomas lube, and he twists around, thighs tightening against Corvo’s waist to balance. Daud’s grin is feral when Thomas just drips the lube over his own cheeks instead of onto Corvo’s dick, then tosses the lube back to Daud and does a prissy, entitled little shoulder shake.

Well? He demands, and Corvo gives a delighted laugh, and grabs handfuls of ass to slick himself up between his cheeks, leaving pink handprints in his wake as the red flush of his cock drags up and down the smooth curves.

He wants a million futures of Thomas playing the brat, his composure cracked wide open, flushed beneath the both of them, comfortable enough to sass back and make fun. He wants him here. This.

Thomas steadies himself with hands splayed on the washboard of Corvo’s torso, feeling like he’s channeling the young Prince of Tyvia, no one in reality could possibly have abs like that. The blunt head of Corvo’s cock bumps up against his tailbone and he’d be lying if he said he’d ever had anyone quite so large.

A thrill runs through him at the thought.

He is going to get wrecked.

 

He reaches back. Corvo grunts at his fingers wrapping around his shaft, the shift of his hips, the way it’s a struggle to push into the clench of silk and heat. Thomas makes a sound of disbelief as he bottoms out, rocks back with hands clenching Corvo’s knees for support, until Corvo sits up, gathering him in, his big hands grabbing at the flesh of his thighs, distracting, nipping again at his newly sensitive nipples, teeth tapping against the metal. He realizes, suddenly, with pleasure, that Thomas is young and small and flexible and he can muscle him around if he wants and from the look in his eyes when Corvo came up to circle his arms around him, he does.

 

You look- Daud gestures weakly, he's a killer not a damned poet, and Corvo glances up sharply from where he's got one of Thomas's legs hiked up over his shoulder, the other wrapped around his waist, a hand holding Thomas still as he rocks into him in tiny beats, and if Daud had to guess from the way it makes him gasp, hitting his prostate more often than not. Corvo nods, eyeing the way Thomas's body looks against his own, and the game changes.

Corvo manhandles Thomas into a new position and he is fast approaching the point of incoherence but he makes a happy sound when Corvo grabs his hips hard and tilts them up to push back in. His hand on Thomas's back seems impossibly close to spanning it entirely. Daud grunts his approval at the new position. Another point won.

He reaches around, across Thomas’s chest, and brings him arching up, trembling. In this new pose his shoulders just barely hit Corvo's sternum and his cock stands out, leaking in front of him. Corvo shoots Daud a searing gaze. Thomas feels on display, his head collapsing back onto Corvo's shoulder, impaled on his cock, his legs spread wide. Daud palms his own dick and bites his lip. Sweat drips from Corvo onto his cheek. Thomas realizes that he is caught between Corvo’s arm and cock and that Corvo's been taking most of his body weight and is still thrusting eagerly in.

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, but this must be what it feels like to be fucked by a god.

Daud surges forward, finally, standing by the edge of the bed, his cock at Thomas’s eye level and his mouth waters of its own accord. His hands find a welcome home braced against Daud's hips as Daud pulls on his hair to guide him in. Now he is suspended between Corvo's dick in his ass and Daud in his mouth and he blinks back tears either as a response to the pressure bumping against the back of his throat or how much this, exactly this, is what he wanted when he thought of being used.

Not like a used car at all.

 

He pulls off once Daud comes down his throat, lips filthy with spittle and come, flushed red and swollen. Corvo grabs messily at his jaw, turns Thomas’s face to chase the taste of Daud's come in his mouth. Daud gives a sigh like a groan, kneels, stubble harsh against Thomas's skin, mouth half an inch away from his cock when the emergency cell phone rings.

Daud curses in a voice thickened by orgasm and listens to whoever is on the other line.

Corvo can’t help himself. He thrusts up, hits Thomas’s sweet spot with unerring aim, and hopes that Thomas's cries carry over the line.

Daud flings the phone down and starts dressing.

Want us to stop? Corvo pants.

Don’t you dare. Daud’s hand swipes over Thomas’s bottom lip and then he pulls his gloves on over the sticky mess on his fingers.

Fuck. I'll be back by midnight, it's nothing big.

Daud’s hand pushes through Corvo’s black tangles, grabs on to get his complete attention.

Don’t break him, he has patrol tomorrow.

 

And then he leaves.

 

Corvo shifts them so Thomas is on his knees again, his elbows, fingers grabbing his own forearms, gasping. Corvo leans in to try and reach Thomas’s cock, but he pushes him back.

Don’t, please, and his voice is raw, throat abused, I want to come on your cock, I think you can-

And Corvo groans, a bit destroyed, flattered, thrumming with need.

He ducks his head and focuses on the pistoning of his hips, the friction, sweat between them.

Want to hold you down- Corvo gasps -your wrists- while he fucks you, watch you squirm on his dick- and Thomas keens, Corvo curving over the lines of his back, hips rolling, mouth shoved against the curve of his ear, mutters,

-Want you to lick him open for me. For us.

And the heat coiling in his belly bursts into flame at the words, and Thomas is coming untouched like he wanted, muscles quivering, shoved back into the solid heat of Corvo's body as he arches like a man possessed.

Corvo follows a few ragged breaths later, groaning low. Thomas is boneless beneath him, flushed and sated. Corvo pulls out with hands running in soothing lines up and down his sides. Thomas lies there, thrumming with warmth, frayed edges, pushed past some limit he didn’t know he had. He can feel the warm, tacky drip of semen between his legs. When Corvo scoops him up and carries him bridal style into the bathroom he gives a distant little laugh, and then the bath is filling with steamy water and being set inside is a kindness because Thomas doesn’t think he can stand.

He hadn’t realized until it was over how far gone he was.

Corvo's hands don’t leave his body, stroking the shaved sides of his head, closing around an ankle to help him into a comfortable sprawl, fingers pressing gently across his shoulders.

After a couple of minutes in the warm water, hazy and fucked out, Thomas comes back to himself. He plants simple kisses along Corvo's biceps, forearm, wrist.

Will you stay the night? Corvo tries to hide his hope in strong fingers kneading into his neck, but it hovers behind his words and it’s not subtle.

Thomas thinks, eyes closed, the water swirling around the pleasant aches in his body.

He pictures his cold sheets and his single bed. Corvo's hands are at his shoulders again. His roommate will snore, if he is even there at all. Thomas worries briefly about what any of it means, if he's tripping off the edge of a cliff here, if this is the wrong play to make. He conjures up the still darkness of his tiny bedroom. Without really thinking about it Thomas brings Corvo's hand in and kisses his palm. He guesses that's it, then, eyes hooded as they survey Corvo over the press of his fingers on his lips.

Outsider's eyes, kid, Corvo murmurs. Do you know how beautiful you are?

Thomas dunks his head under the water to hide his blush.

When he comes back up, he's alone, and grateful for the temporary solitude. He fingers the looseness of his hole, tastes Daud in his mouth, feels satisfyingly debauched.

Corvo is in bed when Thomas is done with the bath, and he drags Thomas in to curl flush against him.

Daud will be back soon, Corvo says, happily, against the nape of his neck. Thomas doesn’t quite know what to make of it all. He feels overwhelmed, wary at how much he wants this.

Could it last? They wouldn’t want him, not that long, he is just easy prey, young and eager, they'd move on once he is properly ruined under their hands.

And yet. Corvo radiates body heat and pulls him close, and Thomas has never come so hard in his life and his eyelids drift shut.

They flutter open again when Daud returns, cold and rain-damp, but both he and Corvo scoot close to lend their warmth and the sound of both of them breathing quiet and steady in their sleep wraps around Thomas and he relaxes into the sound, the feeling, he is not alone in this moment and it’s a lie he wants to embrace with open arms.


End file.
